Page 48 of Minted

And they clearly don’t trust me at all. Any trust we had evaporated when I shoved Bentley through their door with a pizza and summoned Alice to evict them from the only home they cared about. I sigh and collapse back against the hard wooden chair.

I’m not winning them over with my brilliant cooking or festive holiday spirit, either. I need to figure out whether they really hate Christmas, or whether they just hate me, and by extension, anything I suggest.

“Alright, girls. It’s almost dinner time,” I call. “How about Chinese food?”

“We hate Chinese,” one of them says. “Too greasy.”

“Yeah, we don’t want to have a heart attack,” the other says.

At some point, I’m hoping I can tell them apart more easily, and hopefully I’ll know which is speaking without looking at their hairstyle or eye color. Probably something their real mom just knew innately.

But now they’re stuck with remedial mom.

“Alright, what about Italian? We can go out or order in.”

“We just had pizza last night.”

That was definitely said with a sneer.

“Okay, maybe burgers?” If they hate this too, they’re definitely turning down everything that comes from me.

“Fine.”

Great. So which is it?

Are they really picky and they just got tired of turning every single thing down? Or do they plan to make every single thing hard now that I’m the one running the show?

And most importantly, how can I fix this?

“Wanna come out and help me pick a place?”

“Anything’s fine.”

That’s clearly not true. “Two double cheeseburgers with fries?”

“Sure.”

“Girls, can you please come out?”

The door opens, and they step out, Nikki first, and then Ricki. They line up in front of the door with smiles plastered on their faces.

“I know you’re mad at me.”

“We aren’t upset. We’re very grateful to you.” Ricki’s still smiling her terrifying faux-grin.

“Do you really hate Chinese?”

Nikki nods slowly, still smiling.

“And you aren’t upset that I hauled you here, to my house?”

“It’s a lovely apartment with way less rats.” Nikki’s smile slips a little, but I’m not making much progress. Maybe there’s a reason people use bright lights and big buckets of water for their interrogations.

“Look, I know the last few days haven’t been perfect, and I know I’m easy to be angry with.”

“We’re grateful, Mrs. McDougal. We really are.” Only, Ricki doesn’t sound at all grateful. She sounds like she’s smiling like a robot and ignoring any attempt I make at a real interaction.

I’m sick of it. All of it. And I’m tired. This isn’t what I had in mind for this week, either. “Actually, I’m not Mrs. McDougal anymore,” I say, with more bitterness than I probably ought to use with two tiny girls. “After my parents passed away, I got pretty depressed, and I ate a lot. Then I got fat, as you can see, and my husband didn’t love that. So he divorced me. I’ve gone back to my maiden name, Champion.”

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